


promontory apartments

by bellafarallones



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Autistic Indrid Cold (The Adventure Zone), Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Sickfic, architectural purism, background sternclay, condo board president indrid cold, indrid is still the mothman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28204101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellafarallones/pseuds/bellafarallones
Summary: There were two reasons Duck Newton never missed a condo board meeting: the eye candy, and the blood sport.
Relationships: Indrid Cold/Duck Newton
Comments: 16
Kudos: 65





	1. Chapter 1

At 5:57pm Duck Newton slipped into the common room and took his usual seat, in the back next to Barclay. Counting Duck, there were four people in the room, and about thirty chairs, just like there were every month.

“So how’s it going?” Duck whispered to Barclay. 

Barclay shook his head. “Joseph still thinks he can convince Indrid about the closet thing. I don’t know what’s  _ with  _ this guy,” he whispered back. 

“I’m sure he’s got some thing going on we don’t know about,” Duck whispered back. “A tragic backstory resulting in strong opinions about architecture.”

Duck attended condo board meetings  _ religiously,  _ and partially it was for the eye candy. Barclay looked like the Bounty paper towel man; his husband, Joseph, had the same always-overdressed glamour as an early James Bond; and Indrid, he of the passionate architectural opinions, was a piece of modern art, round red glasses and sharp elbows, tousled silver hair and a loose black tank top, luminescent even under fluorescent light.

Yeah. Duck had a crush, and going to condo board meetings meant an uninterrupted hour of looking at Indrid Cold without the pressure of making conversation with the guy. 

At exactly 6:00pm, Indrid looked down at his watch and cleared his throat. “I think we can start,” he said. “First on the agenda is attendance.” He referred to the binder open in front of him: he and Joseph were sitting at a folding table facing the rest of the room. “Board secretary, Joseph Stern.”

“Present,” said Joseph.

“Board treasurer, Joseph Stern.”

“Also present.”

Indrid didn’t seem to pick up on Joseph’s sarcasm. “Board president, Indrid Cold.” He paused for a beat. “I’m here. And now we can begin.”

Indrid and Joseph went through the contract renewal with the janitorial company, the possibility of power-washing the front of the building, and the recurring problem of people only single-bagging their cat litter instead of double-bagging it as the rules specified. Duck drifted in and out, letting Indrid’s pleasant voice wash over him. 

Finally they reached the end of the agenda. “Does anyone have anything else to discuss?” said Indrid.

“I resubmit the same proposal I submitted last month to knock down one of the interior walls in my unit and put in additional closet space.”

“Proposals for remodel require board approval.”

“I’m two-thirds of the board and I say yes.”

“The president has veto power and I say no.”

The other reason Duck came to every single condo board meeting was for the blood sport.

“ _ Why,  _ Indrid, why?” said Joseph desperately.

“Because it violates Mies’ vision of midcentury minimalism!” 

Mies van der Rohe was the architect who’d designed the building, and Duck had to google how to spell his name every single time. He’d bought his apartment due to its proximity to public transit without thought for what the outside of the building looked like. 

“Mies doesn’t care!” Joseph spat back. The architect, indeed, had been dead for over fifty years.

“This building is on the National Register of Historic Places and we have a duty to uphold his legacy.”

“It’s also a real building that real people live in, though, and real people need places to keep their possessions. It’s not like I’m trying to put in a window air conditioner or anything.”

“To alter the floor plan of your unit is to alter the concrete skeleton of the building, which is essential for its character!”

And so on, and so on. Indrid had a very detailed knowledge of architectural history, but the fundamental disagreement rested on his apparent inability to comprehend or admit that the residents of a two-bedroom apartment might need more than one closet.

“I’m sorry, Joseph,” said Indrid finally. “But my answer is still no. What do you want to put in another closet, anyway?”

Joseph just shook his head.

“Do we have a motion to adjourn?”

“I move to adjourn,” said Joseph, sounding exhausted.

“Do we have a second?”

“I second,” said Barclay.

Indrid slapped the plastic folding table as though banging a gavel. “Meeting adjourned. Have a good night, everyone.”

Joseph swept his notes into a pile and stalked over to Duck and Barclay. “Let’s go.”

“You did good, babe,” said Barclay.

“Yeah, yeah. Are you coming, Duck?”

“Go on without me,” Duck said. “I’m. Uh. I’m gonna help Indrid put the chairs away.”

Joseph smirked. “Have fun.”

Indrid was already carrying the folding table back into the storage room. He was significantly stronger than he looked. Duck hurried to stack chairs, giving in to his most sophomoric instincts and carrying them in stacks of five at a time. 

“Hey, Indrid?” he said when the chairs were stacked at the edge of the room again.

Indrid’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Yes, Duck?”

He didn’t know how Indrid knew his name. As far as he could remember he’d never introduced himself, and he only knew Indrid’s because of his overscrupulous attendance-taking. And Joseph and Barclay making fun of him behind his back. “Uh. Are you allergic to cats?”

“No, why?”

“Oh. Uh. Well. I have a cat, and I made too much soup for dinner tonight for one person, and I was wondering if you wanted to join me?”

“I would love to! What kind of soup is it?”

“Uh, black bean. My favorite is French onion but I can never get the caramelization right.”

“I’m not much of a cook, so I’m already impressed.”

“Well, I hope I won’t disappoint.” They left the rec room together and got into the elevator. Duck pressed the button for his floor. “So, uh. What do you get up to when you’re not having condo board meetings?”

“Oh, this and that. Nothing very exciting. What about you?”

“I work for the parks department, taking care of trees.”

“Really? That’s so cool!”

Duck was taken aback by his enthusiasm. That was not the reaction he normally got, especially from people as  _ cool  _ as Indrid was. 

“Oh, and what’s your cat’s name?”

“Annie, but you probably won’t see her; she doesn’t like strangers.”

“Aww,” said Indrid, but he sounded no less delighted. “Understandable.” 

They reached Duck’s floor, and he unlocked his apartment and went in. 

Indrid stopped in the doorway, mouth open. “You have so many possessions!”

“Uh,” said Duck. He wasn’t a hoarder, or anything. He had a couch, a television, and a couple of chairs; a rug, bookshelves full of books and model ships, and house plants on the windowsill. Ordinary domicile stuff. “Now I’m curious what  _ your  _ apartment looks like.”

“Come by anytime and see it.” Indrid went over to the bookshelf and bent down to examine one of the model ships. “Where did you  _ get  _ this?”

“I made it.” Annie was indeed nowhere to be seen, probably hiding under Duck’s bed. 

“Really?”

“Yup.” Well, Duck could honestly report back to Joseph and Barclay that Indrid wasn’t  _ just _ weird in condo board meetings. He went over to the stove and checked on his pot of soup, which he’d left on very low heat during the meeting. 

“That smells delicious,” said Indrid. “Is there anything I can do?”

“If you wanna set the table the silverware drawer’s over there,” said Duck, pointing.

“Alright.” Indrid collected a couple of spoons and put them down on the table. 

Duck tasted the soup, added a little bit of salt, and ladled it into two bowls, which he carried to the table, and then a couple of glasses of water. “Bon appetit.”

Indrid dug in. Duck watched him eat, his delicate hands on the spoon and his sunglasses glinting. If Duck had to guess he’d say Indrid was an artist of some kind, maybe a famous one, but hopefully not so famous he’d be offended if Duck ever admitted he didn’t know who the hell he was. He’d googled  _ Indrid Cold  _ and all that had come up was some urban legend from West Virginia.

“So you must know a lot about architecture,” said Duck finally.

Indrid looked up. “I’ve picked up a few things over the years. Did you know this was the first building Mies designed where the concrete skeleton was visible from the outside?”

“No.”

Indrid seemed to think for a moment, trying to figure out what to say next. “The soup is delicious, by the way, thank you.”

“I’m glad you enjoy it.”

“Will you tell me about your job?”

“Sure,” said Duck. There was something about the way Indrid was looking at him, his gaze clever and forceful even with his eyes hidden, that made him feel like Indrid considered him the most interesting thing in the world. “Well, did you know the parks department keeps track of every single tree?”

“No,” said Indrid. “Really?”

“Yeah. They all have an ID number, and when someone notices that something’s wrong, whether the tree is damaged or sick or whatever, they call in a report and me or one of my coworkers goes to check it out and figure out what needs to be done. And then we do it.”

“I bet you’re a menace with a chainsaw,” said Indrid, with an edge of flirtation in his voice.

“More than one damaged tree limb has met their end at my blade.”

They spent more time talking than actually eating. Duck discovered that Indrid, for all his oddities, made good conversation, and that his laugh was both the least dignified part of him and absolutely perfect. 

Finally, after he’d scraped the bowl clean, Indrid carefully set down his spoon. “Duck, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Why does Joseph hate me?”

Duck opened his mouth. His first instinct was to say that Joseph  _ didn’t  _ hate him, but… he never had been a good liar. “It’s because of the closet thing.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Your Mies purism is… a little much.”

Indrid ran a hand through his hair. “I hadn’t realized it was so important to him. What would he even  _ put  _ in an extra closet?”

“Winter clothes in the summer, summer clothes in the winter. Holiday decorations when it’s not that holiday. All kinds of things.”

“Oh.”

Silence. “Why do you bother to take attendance at meetings? Like, you know you and Joseph are present.”

“The bylaws mandate it,” said Indrid simply. “It made more sense back in the eighties, when there were more board members as well as the heads of various committees present, but the rules say I have to do it.”

“There’s no clause that says ‘take attendance, unless there’s only two people on the board and there’s no point?’”

“Unfortunately not.”

Duck nodded. Indrid looked at him for a moment more, and then stood up.

“Well, I should be going. I had a lovely evening, though, and I mean it when I say you can drop by anytime. I’m in 17D.”

“Are you around tomorrow?” Duck blurted out, then realized how desperate that sounded, but Indrid didn’t seem to notice. 

“Yes.” Indrid smiled, and then looked down at his feet and gasped. Duck leaned over the table to look. A stately orange Maine Coon had appeared and was rubbing her flank against Indrid’s ankles, shedding all over his dark jeans. “Hello, Annie!” Indrid whispered.

“She’s claimed you,” said Duck. 

“I suppose that means I’ll just have to come back sometime.” Indrid met Duck’s gaze for a moment and then cleared his throat. Annie had gotten bored of him and was now head-butting Duck’s leg. “Goodnight, Duck.”

“G’night, Indrid.”

After Indrid was gone Duck apprehended the cat and cuddled her in his lap. She mrowed at him.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. Just don’t start liking him better than me and we’ll be fine.”

\--

Duck was about to get into bed when his phone rang. “Hello?”

“Indrid just called and said we can have a closet!” shouted Barclay. Duck could hear Joseph in the background yelling as well, “ _ I called it! I CALLED it!” _

“Congratulations?” said Duck.

“What did you  _ do  _ to convince him?” said Barclay.

_ “I told you Indrid was into him! I bet all Duck had to do was bat his eyelashes!”  _ said Joseph.

“Uh,” said Duck. “We ate some soup?”

“Must have been some pretty damn good soup. Well, I know as well as anyone that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

“It wasn’t like that! He just, uh. I think he genuinely just couldn’t imagine someone having a use for closet space.”

“Right,” said Barclay dubiously. “Sure. Anyway, well, thank you. I haven’t seen Joseph this happy since he found his favorite cryptozoologist’s journal on Ebay.”

\-- 

After the sun had truly set, the darkness of the lake and the sky was too vast for even the city lights to penetrate. Looking out the window of a seventeenth-floor lakeside apartment, one could see the street below, yes, and the park along the shore, maybe a little gold from the streetlights pooling on the nearshore waters, but beyond that… nothing more solid than stars.

The only aspect of Mies van der Rohe’s design that Indrid had ever taken issue with was the windows. They only opened about five inches, not quite wide enough for him to get through, and so in those night hours Indrid took the elevator down from his apartment to get to the edge of the darkness. His thin frame was silhouetted by one streetlight after another as he crossed the street and went into the park, disappearing for a few moments between them, and then disappearing for good as he stepped off the path and into the trees.

He paused, looked back the way he’d come, up at the building in which he lived, and counted windows. Yes, that patch of light was Duck. Then the mothman turned back to the lake and removed his glasses. 

His wings extended, dark as the water itself. He flapped them once, twice, picking up speed, and took off, ungainly at first. But as gravity surrendered its grip on him, as he soared low over the lake and tipped up into the sky, one thread in a blanket of shadows, it was clear that truly, here was a creature of the air. He flew for hours each night, for the feeling of the wind dragging its fingers through his feathers, the wind whose touch was the only one he’d felt for years, now.

As Duck had found out soon after that first soup dinner, Indrid’s apartment was a barren place. A long sofa was the only piece of furniture in the living room. There were no bookshelves, no pictures hanging on the wall - no pictures at all, no photos of him or any of his friends or family. 

Of course there was no evidence of his interests, his passions, of people he loved and was loved by in return. How could you keep a picture of the wind?

\--

Seasons passed, as seasons are wont to do, and hospitable autumn yielded to an unfriendly winter. On that day in early December Duck woke up and dressed humming along to Girls Just Wanna Have Fun: his bedroom shared a wall with the room his next-door neighbor used as a home gym, and she worked out to loud eighties music seven days a week at 6am like clockwork.

He got on the elevator with his work uniform on under a very heavy coat and a packed lunch in his backpack. His heart leapt when the elevator stopped on the seventeenth floor, but of course it wasn’t Indrid, just one of his neighbors, an old woman with a small dog that licked Duck’s hand politely when he bent down to pet her. The dog’s name was Amelia, but Duck could not for the life of him remember the woman’s.

When they reached the snowy street Duck bid Amelia and her human goodbye and started off to work. When he returned, roughly ten hours later, all the lights on the whole street were dark. The power had gone out.

By the time he had climbed the stairs to his own apartment his thighs were burning and he had to flop down on the couch for a while, huffing and puffing, and by the time his heart rate returned to normal he realized that it was  _ freezing.  _ The power had been out for long enough that all the heat had sapped from the building. 

Annie appeared at the edge of the couch, meowing. He hauled himself up, dumped a can of cat food into her dish, and watched as she inhaled it. When the bowl was licked clean he tried to pick her up and hold her, but she evaded him, warm enough under her thick fur coat without him. 

It sure would be nice to be with someone right now, Duck thought, and an image of red glasses flashed unbidden through his mind, red glasses perched on a face he’d been seeing rather a lot of these days.

He shivered as he pulled off his work shirt and replaced it with three sweaters layered on top of each other. Then he left his apartment and braved the stairs again. 

On the long climb to the seventeenth floor he had time to doubt himself. Indrid probably wasn’t even home, he’d probably found a Panera or a Starbucks somewhere to hang out in, he’d think Duck was weird and unprepared - but when Duck found himself in front of the door to 17D, he didn’t even have to knock. 

The door cracked open, revealing Indrid, with a blanket draped over his shoulders. “Hello, Duck,” he said miserably. Not holed up in a warm Starbucks, then. 

“Hey, Indrid. How’re you holding up?”

“Oh, you know.” He gestured noncommittally. “Do you want to come in?”

“Yes, please,” said Duck, and followed Indrid into the freezing apartment. Indrid returned to the nest of blankets he’d constructed for himself on the couch. Duck sat down next to him, what he hoped was an appropriate distance apart. 

“So what brings you to this neck of the woods?” said Indrid.

“I, uh. Uh. Just checking on you? You know, I was worried you might be cold and I didn’t know if you had enough blankets? And stuff? That’s, uh, definitely all this is, no other motivation…” Duck trailed off when he saw Indrid’s face fall. 

“Well, you’ve checked on me,” said Indrid bitterly. “You can leave now.”

“What?”

“You know you’re not a good liar. Why are you really here? Are you going to go back to your friends and laugh at poor freezing Indrid with no closets and not enough blankets?”

Duck’s mouth dropped open. Indrid had the look of an injured animal, hostile and in pain, literally shivering _. _ “I’m not here to make fun of you,” Duck said. 

“Oh.” Indrid looked down at his lap, at his own hands twisting together. “I’m sorry. I… really don’t like the cold.”

“Do you want… maybe we could. Cuddle? And be warmer?”

Indrid looked up at him.

“That’s, um. That’s the real reason I’m here. I was hoping I could use the cold as an excuse to be close to you. Because I like you. Um.”

“Oh,” said Indrid softly. “I like you, too.”

“Would you like some of my body heat?”

“Yes please.” Indrid held his arms out, and Duck slid gratefully closer. Indrid’s narrow arms wrapped around him, and then somehow they were horizontal, Duck on his back with Indrid mostly on top of him.

“Oof,” Duck said, already rearranging the blankets to cover both of them. 

“Sorry,” said Indrid, freezing hands already edging up under Duck’s shirt. 

“It’s alright.” Duck put his arms around Indrid’s shoulders, trying not to shudder at Indrid’s icy fingers on his warm torso. “This is good.”

It took a few minutes for Indrid to stop shivering, and then a few minutes more for his shoulders to slacken, but eventually he seemed to melt against Duck’s side, and his hair smelled vaguely fruity and  _ oh,  _ that was nice; coming up here had been an  _ excellent  _ idea.

Finally Indrid spoke. “This  _ is  _ good,” he echoed flirtatiously, palms flat against Duck’s stomach.

“I do have muscles you could be touching if you just went a little higher.”

“I appreciate all of you.” Indrid cocked his head. “What was it you called it? My passion for architecture? And I must say, you’re very well-built.”

Duck dared to let his hands rest under the blanket on Indrid’s hips, as though they were dancing. “You’re so distractingly handsome, I can’t come up with a slick way to tell you how handsome you are.”

Indrid rested his chin on his palm, head raised to meet Duck’s eye. “There’s that southern charm I like so much.”

“Yeah, you know me, a real gentleman,” Duck said. “Joseph thought I’d slept with you to convince you to let him put in a closet.”

“Was that an option?”

“...maaaybe.”

“If I’d known, I wouldn’t have been so easy to convince.”

“Mm. Maybe I should plan some home renovations.” Duck dropped his voice into something comically sultry. “Oh, Mr. Condo Board President…”

“Yes, Mr. Most Attractive Condo Resident?”

“I’d really like to put in a bidet, but renovations require board approval… whatever could I do to convince you to let me  _ sully  _ Mies’ divine vision…”

Indrid laughed. “You’d have better luck trying that when it’s not too cold for me to take my clothes off.”

“Yeah.” For a moment Duck was quiet, enjoying the feeling of another person pressed against him, the slow rise and fall of Indrid’s chest. “Hey, Indrid?”

“Yes?”

“Do you want to find someplace warm to have dinner? Like a restaurant? As a date?”

They’d been lying together for long enough that Indrid’s fingers were warm as they laced between Duck’s. “I’d love to.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> creds to ThisWasInevitable for the idea for how duck finds out :3c

In the spring Indrid went to Arizona. He didn’t give much of an explanation before he left, not even _why_ or how long he’d be gone, just driven away in the Winnebago RV that had been taking up three parking spots in the lot behind the building for as long as Duck could remember. Still, he kept his promise to call every night, and sent Duck postcards signed _xoxo._

That was the kind of boyfriend Indrid was. Good, but strange. He’d volunteered to pick Duck up at the airport when he’d had to fly to a work conference once, a hassle if there ever was one and more commitment than Duck’s last three boyfriends had ever displayed, but Duck still didn’t know anything about his family (“We’re not in touch” was all Indrid had said about his parents) or his occupation (Duck’s best guess was still that he was an artist, or had been at some point: Indrid drew relentlessly, and well, but never seemed to sell anything). 

After a week and a half Indrid announced he was coming back, and they’d agreed to meet for dinner at an Indian restaurant downtown to celebrate. They’d gone several times before for the lunch buffet, riding the bus with their fingers entwined in Duck’s coat pocket.

But the morning of Indrid’s return, Duck was awoken at five in the morning by a wrenching pain in his gut. At eight he tore himself away from the toilet to call in sick to work. At noon he texted Indrid. _So sorry but I’m going to need a rain check on tonight, my stomach hates me._

He was lying in bed, dehydrated and vaguely feverish, with Annie curled up on his stomach, when the phone rang. He wouldn’t have picked up, except for the ringtone was I Want To Hold Your Hand, which meant that it was Indrid.

“Hello?” Duck groaned.

“ _I’m so sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner; I was driving. I’m sorry you’re not feeling well. Uh. This is Indrid, by the way.”_

“Hey, ‘Drid. I’m just sorry I won’t be able to have dinner with you tonight. Where’re you at?”

_“Stopped for gas just outside Springfield, I’ll be home in about three and a half hours. Do you want me to come over and keep you company?”_

“I’m afraid I won’t be very good company.” He was still wearing his pajamas from the previous night, his mouth tasted of vomit, and he was on hour six of binging Frasier. 

“ _I'_ _m asking what_ you _want, Duck,”_ Indrid said, and Duck could hear his smile even through the phone.

“...yes.” He missed his boyfriend. “D’you think you could stop off and bring me some Gatorade?”

_“Of course, what flavor?”_

“Orange? Thanks, Indrid. I really appreciate it.”

_“I can’t wait to see you. And I hope you feel better soon. I’ll see you as soon as I can?”_

Duck groaned. How was it possible to feel this nauseous with nothing in your stomach? “Can’t wait. Bye.” He hung up, tossed his phone down, and went back to the bathroom to vomit some more.

In the next three hours he managed to take a shower, and when Indrid knocked Duck opened the door with damp hair and a genuine smile. Indrid dropped the twelve-pack of orange Gatorade on the floor and threw his arms around Duck’s neck. 

“I won’t kiss you because I’m gross,” Duck mumbled, hugging him back, “but I’m thinking about it.” Indrid’s hair was a mess, there were dark circles under his eyes, and he was probably the most attractive person Duck had ever seen.

Indrid laughed. “It’s the thought that counts.” He was wearing sweatpants and a soft, oversized t shirt from Kofa National Wildlife Refuge, which was one of the places he’d sent Duck a postcard from. Indrid’s itinerary had been eccentric, to say the least: he’d been headed to the southwest quadrant of Arizona, so remote it was home to the United States’ largest nuclear power plant and little else. 

Annie came and rubbed her face against Indrid’s ankles, and he bent down to pet her. “I missed you too, General.” (Annie’s full name was General Anopheles, after the malaria-carrying mosquito). Then he looked up at Duck. “What have you been up to today?”

“When I’m not vomiting? In bed watching Frasier.” He leaned more heavily on Indrid, now, the ache in his legs worsening.

“Back to bed with you, then,” said Indrid. He followed Duck back into his bedroom, collected the three empty cups from the nightstand, and took them back out into the kitchen. By the time Duck had gotten settled again Indrid had returned with a glass of ice and a bottle of Gatorade. 

“You’re an angel, babe,” Duck sighed, and drank thirstily. 

Indrid disappeared again, and Duck lay back and listened somewhat absently to the sound of the water running in the kitchen and the clink of plates. Indrid was washing the dishes, which was odd, because in his own house he saw no problem with letting them pile up. But Duck liked to be tidy, and so Indrid was tidying up on his behalf.

Annie curled up suffocatingly warm on Duck’s chest again, and he petted her clumsily. For a few minutes there was silence. Then the sound of the can opener, which turned Duck into a springboard for Annie’s sprint into the kitchen. 

Finally Indrid’s lanky frame in the doorway threw a long shadow across the bed, and Duck stretched his arms out for him. Indrid curled up against Duck’s side. “I cleaned the litter box and gave Annie her dinner, so you don’t have to worry about that,” he said softly. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

“Thanks,” said Duck. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

Indrid pressed a kiss to Duck’s cheek. “I’m happy to.”

If their positions were reversed, Duck knew he’d do the same for Indrid in a heartbeat. Fuck. It only took a little bit of tugging to get Indrid lying on top of him, his weight as comforting as the coolness of his skin, the even in-and-out of his breath. 

Duck’s head felt like it was full of cotton, but he knew he wanted this forever. Him and Indrid, together, taking care of each other.

He wanted to say _I love you_ but neither of them had said it yet, and he didn’t want to rush. “We should get married,” he mumbled.

Indrid laughed gently. “When you’re feeling well enough to get down on one knee.”

“I will,” Duck vowed, and then his stomach wrenched and he lurched off the bed and towards the bathroom again.

\--

Several weeks later, Duck Newton was sitting on the couch, reading a book about the history of Everglades National Park. It was past dark, and the open window admitted a pleasant breeze and, with it, the steady rumble and occasional siren-shriek of the street below. 

Then there was a loud thump, like a bird colliding with the window. Two huge, glowing red eyes replaced the pale freckling of stars in the sky. “Duck,” said a very familiar voice over the noise of frantic wingbeats. Duck had already leapt up, thrown his book aside. “Will you - ah - will you open the screen for me? You’ll be upset if I tear it out but I really do need to get in.”

Duck’s fingers fumbled for a moment on the plastic latch, but he threw the screen open and backed away again. Two pairs of muscular arms pried it the rest of the way open, as wide as the window would go, claws scrabbling at the glass as _something_ hauled its way inside, smushed almost flat to fit through the eight-inch opening. 

“Thank you,” it huffed, “though _really,_ Duck, I can’t _believe_ you modified your windows without permission it’s - it’s - and the form to request renovation authorization is _simple!”_ One massive shoulder was inside now. “And you _know_ I would have approved it for you, Duck, you _know_ I’d do that for you, it’s about the - ow!” 

He’d gotten caught, now, had to use his hands to pull his wing through the narrow opening. “Stupid wingtips - it’s about the integrity of the design!” He tumbled headfirst through the window and landed on the carpet, then stood and puffed up again like a robin defending its territory. 

Duck, having stumbled backwards onto the couch during this spectacle, burst out laughing.

“What? What’s so funny?” The cat crept out from under the couch and hissed at the intruder, who put one hand to his chest, affronted. “Annie! I was giving you treaties not four hours ago!”

Duck caught his breath enough to speak, tears streaming down his cheeks. “How about - how about the part where the _mothman_ is lecturing me about _architecture?”_

“Oh.” The mothman looked down at himself. “I - yes. I do look like this, don’t I. Uh. I’m Indrid. I’m the mothman.”

“I can tell, babe. I can tell.”

“Ah.” For a moment they looked at each other in silence. Indrid replaced the screen, which seemed to remind him what he’d been upset about. “It’s worse than the closet! At least a closet doesn’t affect the facade! And what about when you want to sell your apartment?” He was pacing up and down now, wringing all four of his hands. “Buyers will expect what Mies put in! And Mies’ windows only opened five inches!”

Duck relaxed on the couch, taking a sip of his Coke, and waited for Indrid to burn himself out. It took a while. Finally he turned around again. “Duck?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Will you go down to my apartment and get my spare glasses for me? Please?”

“You expect me to do you a favor after you just spent ten minutes lecturing me about a stupid window?” Duck teased.

Indrid’s mouth dropped open. “Oh,” he said. Then - “oh. I see. You’re joking. Yes. I’m sorry.”

“You need your glasses why?”

“Wearing them is what keeps me from looking like this. There should be a spare pair in the top drawer of my dresser.”

“Alright.”

“And…” Indrid twisted his hands together. “I know you have questions. And I’ll answer them. I promise.”

Duck hadn’t realized how many questions he had until Indrid said it. Somehow seeing your dork of a boyfriend get all worked up over having replaced a window with one that opened a little wider - and realizing how _stupid_ in love with him you were that you loved him for it - superseded the shock and awe of the literal mothman climbing in through your window. 

“Alright.” Duck hauled himself up off the couch and got the spare key to Indrid’s apartment out of the bowl of keys by the door - it was on a heart-shaped keychain, that was the kind of relationship they had. “I’ll be right back.”

The bland, synthetic music in the elevator just about set him off laughing again. Elevator music. What kind of a world was it that he lived in, a world with an actual mothman, a world where Duck Newton had somehow ended up with probably the hottest, best boyfriend maybe _ever,_ who also happened to be mothman _,_ and also there was stupid elevator music.

Duck let himself into Indrid’s apartment without bothering to turn on the light. There wasn’t enough furniture in here to trip over. Indrid’s cavernous bedroom held only a bed, a narrow dresser, and a small bookshelf, which was mostly empty, just a few coffee-table collections of art and an inexplicably well-loved Blue Angels flight manual. 

The top drawer of the dresser contained… Indrid’s underwear, which Duck was a little bit embarrassed to see, even after everything, and then a stack of paper he recognized, because there was the card he’d gotten Indrid for Valentine’s Day, the note he’d put in Indrid’s mailbox asking him to dinner that one time. Evidence of _them_. And, neatly folded, a pair of red sunglasses, identical to the ones Indrid wore literally all the time. Well, all the time except now. 

Duck took the glasses and slid the drawer closed. When he got back down to his own apartment Indrid accosted him at the door, took the glasses out of his hand, and put them on. “Thank you thank you _thank you,”_ he said, and immediately shrunk back into himself, back into the man whose strange, handsome face Duck knew so well. He cleared his throat. “I am still going to fine you for unauthorized renovations, though.”

“Oh, fuck you,” said Duck. “Gimme those glasses back.”

“Nope!” Indrid danced backwards, but Duck was determined, grabbed Indrid around the middle and hauled him, laughing, over his shoulder. He carried Indrid across the room and deposited him on the couch before sitting down next to him.

“So,” Duck said, suddenly serious. “You’re the mothman.”

“Yes.” Indrid hugged himself, wrapping his long arms around his torso. “That is the body I was born in, though I have been disguising myself as a human for… a long time, now. I was out tonight and lost my glasses and thus could not get back into the building by the normal way. And my windows don’t open wide enough for me. But I saw that I could get through yours.”

“What do you mean, you saw? It’s only an inch or two difference; don’t tell me it’s noticeable from the outside.”

“Three inches. But I can also see the future.”

Duck groaned. “Were you ever going to tell me?”

“Of course I was. I’m sorry I didn’t sooner, but I couldn’t figure out how to. It’s… not an easy thing to bring up.” Duck put a comforting hand on his back, and Indrid looked up at him, reflective sunglasses shining. “I wanted you to know. I’d been thinking about it.”

“How did you lose your glasses tonight?”

“I was… flying. That’s what I do every night. I go down to the park and hide my glasses in a bush and fly out over the lake. Tonight some kid found the glasses and took them. Thank God the enchantment doesn’t work on anyone but me. They’d be in for an interesting surprise.” Indrid took both of Duck’s hands in his. “I want you to see me fly. My kind… we do flight displays, to impress potential partners, and I want to show off for you.” 

“That’s why you have that Blue Angels manual, isn’t it?” 

“Yes. I can do all the tricks in that book, and more.” The pride in Indrid’s voice was clear. 

Duck took a deep breath. He was a little hurt that Indrid had been keeping this from him, but then again, this wasn’t a normal kind of secret. “Is there anything else big you’re not telling me?”

Indrid counted off on his fingers. “I’m the mothman. I can see the future - or rather, the futures; I see possibilities. And I’m an alien.” He smiled weakly. “Explains why I’m so weird, huh?”

Duck wrapped his arms around Indrid’s shoulders and pulled him to his chest. Indrid tentatively put his arms around him as well.

“Are we… are we cool?” said Indrid.

“Yeah, ‘Drid. We’re cool.”

“Thank you.”

Duck had often thought the strange angles of Indrid’s face were somewhat alien, but never imagined it might actually be true. But most of what he thought now was that the mothman had looked very comfortable to cuddle with. “I love you,” Duck said.

Indrid stiffened, fingers tightening in Duck’s shirt, and for a moment there was silence. Then - “I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know if you want to see more of this? possible coming attractions include flight displays and duck discovering that indrid did in fact know mies van der rohe personally even though he died in 1966

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! hit me up on tumblr @bellafarallones


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